The weary musings of a time-served estate agent (realtor) somewhere in the UK. If you want advice on the property market, or alternative careers to this one, let me know, I might reply. In the meantime I'm plagued by cretinous idiots who I work with and for, and who may well feature in my diary at some time.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

If You Took A Holiday - Thursday

It starts in the arrivals hall as I wonder if the
tingling in my legs is cramp or a deep vein thrombosis? The knee-length flight
socks that made me look like a nightmare version of a St Trinians’ schoolgirl
might not have been worth the indignity.

‘Don’t suppose we’ll see our luggage again.’ I grumble as
the baggage conveyor does the same and starts up, shunting several fat woman
sideways who had sat down after the exertion of moving a hundred yards without
priority boarding and a wheelchair.

‘Don’t go all negative on me.’ Chides my wife as a
battered suitcase with one lock hanging off chugs round and round in a poignant
search for its owner. I was never that upbeat. Who is after a childhood
parental divorce and the first house move you didn’t want or need? But half a
lifetime later and several thousand fraught moves on, while others take the
equity and the plaudits, I’m a tad grumpy.

‘They know a property person when they spot one.’
Chuckles my wife, as suitcases recovered, we trundle through the airport and
several shifty-looking Spaniards thrust up-market homes brochures at us while
overhead advertising screens push new developments with waterside views and
silly prices. Nothing changes.

‘Is it really three decades since we were here?’ I ask
incredulously as the sun catches my face and I feel instantly better and the
asking prices in my hand not so laughable. The island looked more built-up as
the 737 circled the airport and it’s a fair bet I won’t be insane enough to
dance to One Step Beyond by Madness this time, but the clubs are still
thriving. The dream is tarnished when you see them in the daytime, but then the
property market is just as disingenuous.

‘Bloody hell.’ I stage whisper to my wife as we board the
coach. ‘Is this a hearse or are we booked into sheltered accommodation?’ A sea of sun-damaged faces, rheumy eyes and
inappropriate sportswear look back at me inquisitively. It’s the first time
I’ve felt young since that McCarthy & Stone launch evening.

‘At least I won’t have to talk to people.’ I hypothesise
as we take the first walk round the resort, having asked to change the room
when the sea view turned out to be another property Misdecription, only without
the criminal prosecution and taped interview.

‘Why’s that?’ She asks warily.

‘Because they are all Germans.’ I tell her as a Teutonic
couple march by and greet us with a, Guten Tag.

‘Look,’ I tell her as we approach the quayside shops.
‘Even the estate agencies are run by Krauts.’ And we pause by a row of
shiny-windowed units with names like Engel & Humberdink and Voelkes &
Himmler. They may not have hung on to Poland but they got most of the
Mediterranean eventually.

‘Where there’s overpriced homes you’ll get big ticket
boats.’ I tell my wife knowingly as we see equally flashy yacht brokerages
cheek by jowl with the property purveyors. I’ve ex-vendors who bought in haste
in Spain, sitting on 50% price falls still unable to return to the UK, yet here
are row upon row of boats, all for sale just as the apartments are, just as
everything is.

‘They’re having a laugh surely?’ I ask my wife as, sat at
a waterside bar, we get the bill for a small beer and a diet coke costing more
than a couple of NHS prescriptions. All around the tinkle of well-bred voices
are, curiously, speaking heavily accented English across borders. Within view
are more Sunseekers than a wet bank holiday in Hove and I just long to put the
dampers on the whole fantasy by pricking the price bubble, but self-harm isn’t
an admirable trait. I gently broil instead.

‘How many million Euros?’ I scoff, as I can’t help myself
passing another agency window, pausing to look. The infinity pool looks
enticing, as does the sun-kissed view, but come Christmas and the realisation
that some Spanish planner took a backhander and you don’t own the parking or
the plumbing, it might not seem so bright. I reckon David Blaine would be
embarrassed by all this clumsy slight of hand.

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Middle-aged property professional. Twenty-five plus years sales experience. Author of this esteemed blog,who has also written a regular Sunday Times column, a feature article for The Observer magazine together with a now available property anecdote and advice book. The Secret Agent- A year In The Life.
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